It is the photograph that is lodged in my memory, never to be erased, no matter how many years go by. It is in black and white. Grainy. In the foreground, there are the heads of a dozen or so people, crouching but looking upwards. At the top of the picture are three armoured, police Land Rovers with grilles across their windscreens.
The middle of the picture is the focal point. A police officer, a burly figure padded out with a flak jacket, helmet on, visor up, stands side on, right arm nearest us, right index finger on the trigger of his 2ft-long gun, the stock wedged into his shoulder. The left arm is extended to a grip at the end of the barrel. There is another policeman in the centre. But the figure you are drawn to is on the right, a man in his early 20s, black tousled hair and a moustache, about two metres away from the end of the gun. In his right hand, he seems to be carrying a thin stick. He is leaning forward, as if stopping suddenly, left hand going to his chest, to his heart.
